The Pale Door
The parchment lay on the oak desk, its surface slick with the residue of candle wax and the damp breath of the scriptorium, and Elias read the list of names until the ink blurred into a smear of grey soot. He was a scribe of the Pale Court, a functionary whose hands were supposed to be steady but whose spine had begun to hum with a frequency that felt like cracking ice, a sensation that visited...
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